


Halo

by raisedbymoogles



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Body Modification, Bondage, Dirty Talk, M/M, Power Play, Roleplay, Smut, pain play, post-S3, unauthorized use of a soldering iron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 01:47:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3632037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raisedbymoogles/pseuds/raisedbymoogles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A contemplative moment. A game. Creative use of the environment... and neither of them can stay in character to save their lives. ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Halo

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle Golden Oldies 2015.

Galvatron was not best pleased to have to search for his rival on his own slagging birthday, especially since the birthday party for the Unicronians had been Hot Rod’s suggestion to begin with. He was even less pleased that, when he finally found his wayward Autobot, he was sitting on the roof of the dance hall looking up at Unicron’s head.  
  
Granted, since the Unicronians’ birthday was the same day that Unicron had attacked Cybertron most of Cybertron was probably doing something similar, but Galvatron was in no mood to be understanding.  
  
“For shame, Prime. Abandoning your guest of honor,” he admonished, striding toward the smaller mech with the intention of picking him up and carrying him back to the party over his shoulder.   
  
Hot Rod turned and gently caught his arm, wrapping it around himself to guide Galvatron into an embrace instead. “I know, I’m being a bad host. I was just thinking about that day.”  
  
Which ‘that day’ was obvious, given Hot Rod’s choice of scenery. “You’re dwelling,” Galvatron warned, tightening his grip.  
  
Hot Rod leaned his head back against Galvatron’s chest. “I could have done better by you, that day. I’m sorry.”  
  
Galvatron glared up at Unicron. Even dismembered and dark, the visage of his former master still made the energon grow hot in his lines with rage, sparks going off at the corners of his optics. He’d wanted to enslave the god/monster himself, give back the wrenching pain he’d been given. He had failed. He’d failed, been brought to heel again, and the weapon Unicron most feared had been taken from his hands and wielded to lethal effect by an Autobot, of all things.  
  
Galvatron had no talent for grudges, but it had taken a long time for him to forgive the new Prime. Somehow, he doubted that Hot Rod was apologizing for that. Foolish Autobot that he was.  
  
He stroked Hot Rod’s cheek, smirked when Hot Rod looked up to meet his optics. “Shouldn’t have grabbed for the Matrix.”  
  
Hot Rod’s optic ridges lifted. “You shouldn’t have been choking me!”  
  
“Hmph. With hindsight, clearly I had better options.” He gripped Hot Rod’s shoulders and lifted him off the ground. “For example,” he growled, amused as Hot Rod squirmed, “I could have done  _this.”_  
  
He brought Hot Rod down flat on his back, hard enough to rattle, and knelt over his hips. “I have captured you, Autobot!” The words were a roar, but he was grinning all out of proportion to implied threat, taking the sting out of the reminder of that moment Hot Rod had been closest to death.  
  
Hot Rod laughed, reaching up only to have his wrists caught. “Now what? Unicron’s still alive in this scenario.”  
  
Galvatron tapped his cheek with one fingertip, enjoyed the gentle bite to the knuckle that Hot Rod responded with. “Now? We destroy Unicron together.” Hot Rod’s engine purred under him, blue optics glinting as  _his_  Prime worried at his finger. “Our combined power rends him asunder!”  
  
“Mmm.” Hot Rod released Galvatron’s knuckle. “And then?”  
  
“And then…?” Galvatron repeated, optics glinting. “Why, I still have a captive to enjoy, don’t I?” Hot Rod revved under him, squirming futilely against the warlord’s grip on his wrists just to feel them tighten to the point of pain, and Galvatron laughed. “Resistance is futile, Autobot! But your attempts amuse me.”  
  
“Oh, yeah? How about this?” Hot Rod rocked up sharply and bit Galvatron’s wrist, much harder than he’d bitten Galvatron’s finger before. Galvatron hissed, optics dimming as pure, hot  _want_  roared through him. He wrapped his free arm around Hot Rod and lifted him up, murmuring curses and imprecations into the smaller mech’s helm as Hot Rod mock-struggled.  
  
The remains of a Primal statue still stood on the rooftop, little more than the crescent-moon ring that would have haloed the ancient Prime’s likeness and its stand, and Galvatron zeroed in on it as if it had been built to his purposes. Hot Rod growled and chewed Galvatron’s plating, but his resistance was all show - as Galvatron pulled a set of thick straps from his subspace, Hot Rod’s engine revved so hard his back pulled into an arch. “Cease your wiggling, or else,” Galvatron growled into his neck.  
  
Hot Rod grinned through his daze of desire. “Or else, what?”  
  
Down he went - rattled to the ground at the base of the statue, on his front this time. Galvatron planted a pede on his back and leaned in, grinding his captive into the tarmac until he gasped out Galvatron’s name.  
  
“Or else, Autobot,” Galvatron purred, “I’ll put you in your place.” Hot Rod grunted and kicked at the ground; Galvatron paused to let him contemplate his ‘place,’ admiring the bite marks on his wrist in the meantime. They still stung faintly; Galvatron hummed with pride and ran his glossa over the marks.  
  
The straps were attached to the frame with no particular speed, and Hot Rod put up little resistance as he was bound by them, wrists and ankles. Galvatron stepped back to admire his handiwork, savoring the fruits of his artistry from all angles. Hot Rod hung quietly in his bonds for now, stretched and splayed out to expose every inch of his shining armor, all of his attention for his warlord alone. By Galvatron’s estimation, his Prime made a far finer display than whatever statue had once stood here. He hardly knew what to do first!  
  
Violet fingers traced over Hot Rod’s helm. “Galvatron,” the young Prime breathed.  
  
Galvatron smirked, tipped Hot Rod’s chin up. “Are you going to beg for mercy, my captive?”  
  
Surprise flashed across his face, followed by chagrin, then a re-commitment to the role. “Never!” he boasted. “Bring it on.”  
  
Galvatron smirked. “That’s what I like to hear.” He lashed out as he would with Cyclonus, a slap that forced Hot Rod’s head to the side. As Hot Rod gasped his surprise, engine racing, Galvatron seized his helm and kissed the cheek he’d slapped. “You will lose that defiance of yours when I’m done with you, Autobot,” he purred, tracing his thumb over Hot Rod’s perfect mouth. “I will enjoy stripping away your pride.”  
  
Hot Rod grinned, hands flexing into fists. “Not as much as I will.”  
  
Galvatron laughed. “Oh, I know! I know precisely what you enjoy.” He circled around the display of Hot Rod’s form again, taking his spoiler in a hard grip. “Don’t I, Prime?”  
  
“Now who’s breaking character,” Hot Rod muttered.  
  
Galvatron barked a laugh mingled with outrage, shook Hot Rod by the spoiler until he cried out from the strain on his limbs. “Very well, I don’t know what you enjoy, but I will savor finding out.” He applied both hands to that spoiler, gripping so hard he left faint streaks of violet behind to besmirch the gold. Hot Rod couldn’t quite stifle a moan. “And when I learn what makes you cry out, Autobot - do not doubt I will use it.” He leaned into Hot Rod’s back, forcing a pained grunt from him. “Over and over.” He let go of the spoiler, reaching around his shoulder - Hot Rod tensed, but Galvatron only gripped his jaw from behind without touching his throat. “Until you are begging for me.”  
  
Those last few words came out in a hiss next to Hot Rod’s audial. Galvatron smirked as he felt Hot Rod shudder against him, engine singing a desperate note of want. His jaw was tense in Galvatron’s hand, working so endearingly hard not to cry out. Galvatron purred, stroking the spoiler-tip in reward. His mouth grazed the edge, and Hot Rod hitched and arched as best he could under Galvatron’s weight, shaking hands convulsing in their bonds. It was an unvoiced plea, and as much as that pleased Galvatron, it wasn’t enough. Not quite.  
  
Later there would be time for the indulgence of a lover. Now he wanted the desperation of a prisoner.  
  
“Now,” he purred, “where does my prize keep his couplings? Here?” His hand left Hot Rod’s spoiler to drift down his side. “Or here?” A hard squeeze of his hip.  
  
“I’ll never tell,” Hot Rod laughed, continuing to squirm as Galvatron touched everywhere but where his hatches actually were. “S-search all you want, you’ll never - ah! - never find them-” His hips jerked as Galvatron bit the back of his neck. “You spawn of the Pit,” he swore.  
  
“I love it when you praise me.” Galvatron smirked over the bite mark. “Come, praise me again!” His hands finally went to the port covers low on Hot Rod’s back, pressing hard into them just to force Hot Rod into that beautiful arch again. Hot Rod cried out wordlessly, head snapping back, and his couplings bared themselves of their own volition. Galvatron gripped Hot Rod’s hips and pressed his own larger connectors into the ports, and as energy crackled from them Hot Rod cried out again, his voice dying on Galvatron’s name.  
  
“Mine now,” Galvatron purred, optics dimming to lava-warm burgundy as he savored his Prime’s need. “Say it.”  
  
Hot Rod managed a dazed laugh, each pulse of Gavatron’s data/energy/lust making his servos tighten. “Say it or what?”  
  
“Or you will discover how merciful I am to prisoners.” Galvatron gripped Hot Rod’s thigh, part molestation and part threat. “Unless that’s what you want…?”  
  
The trailed-off question gave Hot Rod the opening he needed. “I don’t want mercy,” he gasped. “Not from you. Never from you.” Connected as they were, Galvatron  _felt_  the truth of his words, as he knew Hot Rod could feel the desire they sparked. The young Prime tilted his head back as Galvatron stepped forward, one arm sliding around his waist to crush him close, chest to spoiler, helm to helm. “Hurt me,” Hot Rod begged. “Don’t pleasure me. Make me suffer for you, I know you like that better.”  
  
Galvatron chuckled, face pressing to the side of Hot Rod’s helm. “We’ve broken character again, haven’t we, Rodimus?”  
  
Hot Rod laughed breathlessly. “Ah, let it drop.”  
  
“Indeed.” Galvatron passed his intentions to Hot Rod through the linkup; Hot Rod bit his lip and nodded, shuttering his optics. “But you are a beautiful prisoner,” Galvatron told him, straightening again and rifling through his subspace. “You always have been, my Prime.”  
  
The soldering tool he brought out had been modified a bit from its original specs, but it worked the same way. Galvatron hit the trigger and observed the hot tip spray to life, dripping sparks. Hot Rod tensed and trembled at the sound of it, and cried out when Galvatron tested its power on his own palm and allowed Hot Rod to feel how much it hurt.  
  
“Yes,” Hot Rod gasped, clenching his hand.  
  
Galvatron seized his thigh, stroking the panel he intended to - beautify or mar, or both in his opinion. “What shall I write?” he asked lightly, and Hot Rod shuddered, too overcome to speak. He sent his suggestion via their connection instead. “How appropriate,” Galvatron purred, and put the red-hot tip to Hot Rod’s thigh.  
  
Hot Rod cried out, a flood of praise and slurs in Primal Vernacular, prevented from thrashing by his bonds and Galvatron’s grip on his leg; energy pulsed wildly between them, data flashed back and forth in a crescendo racing toward climax, pain-pleasure-heat-lust-want-now-MINE-! Hot Rod cried out again, haloed by his own energy, and overloaded before Galvatron finished burning his own name-glyph into Hot Rod’s thigh.  
  
As Hot Rod slumped, Galvatron panted harshly through his vents - Hot Rod’s overload had flooded him, not enough to push him into his own but bringing him close enough to taste it. He reshifted his grip, lifted his helm from where it had been pressed into the edge of Hot Rod’s hip, and put soldering tool to living metal one more time.  
  
The possessive marker took shape, gleaming faintly red; Hot Rod’s pain echoed to Galvatron’s systems. This time he overloaded.  
  
Overhead, the stars turned. Hot Rod was haloed only by the frame he was tied to, his optics dim in warmly-welcomed defeat. Galvatron levered himself up with a grunt, tossed the spent solderer aside and set about freeing Hot Rod from the straps without bothering to disconnect them first. His Prime was still experiencing faint aftershocks, sensor-ghosts chasing themselves around his body, and Galvatron had  _earned_  those.  
  
Hot Rod slid to the ground as soon as he was freed, straps still dangling from his wrists, and panted heavily as he leaned on Galvatron’s leg. He had his own ideas on what Galvatron had earned: nuzzling Galvatron’s thigh, he croaked a single word, exhausted and sparkfelt.  _”Yours.”_  
  
Galvatron stroked his helm, and allowed Hot Rod to bask in his pride. “Yes, mine.”


End file.
